It really wasn't supposed to be like this.
This banal.
This mundane.

I was supposed to be some kinda.
Something.
By now.

The torpor is aftertaste.
The depression.
Par for the course.

She doesn't talk to me anymore.
No bated breath.
No smiles.
No glance.
No long conversations til dusk.

Just her absence.
I don't think she was ever there to begin with.
All I was was an afterthought.
Meandering distraction.

Cast off husks don't break any hearts.  
They rot.
Alone.

Now.
I disconnect myself.
From that synthetic reality.
The serendipitous escape.

Where for once.
I was part of a greater community.
Something different.
If only in my mind.

The fantasy.
Was always.
A change from the empty stillness.
The mute conversations I have with myself.
A distraction from unremitting failure.

Now.
I'm not so schizophrenically.
Detached.
Stuck in the minds of other people.

I think.
What exactly did I learn.
From that grandiose delusion of mine.
From that failure to connect.
From that fragile persona.
That was never me.
My never was.


Nothing.

I learned nothing.

I'm going back to all alone.
It's much more comfortable.
More, serene.

True to myself.

No one I know will even.
Find out when I.
Die.

They're just personas.
Avatars and text on.
Screens.

A figment of my imagination.
Projected out there on that impossible.
Perch.

That I can't land on.
Where telegrams can only reach.

No one will give them my obituary.
I'll just recede.
Into nothing.

I'm symetrically out of place.
Every where I go.
Covered in the filth of a thousand chain smoked.
Cigarettes.
And, the offal.
Smelling foul.
Mould.
****.
Betraying the lie of potential.
In my face.

I'll wake up tomorrow and you'll be in my dreams.
Stuck.
A good memory gone bad.

And I'll see you in her face.

Hear your in her voice.

And I'll push her away.
Too.

How do I make this feel better.
How do I **** the memories.
That once I was a beautiful could have been.
But now.
I just whittle away the hours.
Enter anguish when there's no more ****
No more alcohol or hours of video games.
Just to.
Waste my
Time.

Here sitting in my self abnegation.
In my sacred antipathy

It feels like I'll never get out.
From under this rock.

It will just weigh me down.
In perpetual melancholy.

Irreverent nothingness.

These self reflections draw me open.

And my guts laid bare.
My life.
My intuition and my memory.

All fall apart and I'm left barren.
Gazing at nothing.
Coiled frustration.
Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
A waste of time.
A wasted life.

The future is supposed to be bright.
But for me.
It's just there.
Waiting.
I'm stuck out here.
In these doldrums.
Staring at the horizon.
Wondering when I'll do more.
Than freeze in place.

I never learned.
How to get attached.
When all I do is run.
To somewhere else.
Otherwise.
These ghosts.
They still haunt me.

Everything.
I.
Have.

It's not worth much anyway.

I have always.
Hated myself.

That's why I'm so surprised.
When other people like.
Me.

I feel better alone.
Unnoticed.

It's always away.
From an uncomfortable.
I'm here.

All I have left of my former life.
Is empty notebooks.
A photograph or two.
And her memory.
Written all over it.

There's nowhere I can go.
When the next cataclysmic catastrophe destroys my life.
There is no safe place of sentiment and empathy.
Nothing and no one there to tell me it's ok.

No food.

No kind words.

No favours or luck.

Just.
Struggle.

Just.
Motion forward to somewhere else.
Problem solving myself from here to there.
As it comes.

The future so distant.
All I can imagine.
Is these tired blistered feet.
Walking down some burning asphalt.

My soundtrack the crickets and wild things.
That live beyond the ditch.
Etched in my mind.
Perpetually leaving.

I never wanted to play.
Nice.
With the other kids.
I just.
Wanted to be alone.
Now.
I just wanna.
Recede on back into that nothingness.
I know so well.
My good friend.
Cushioned in silence.
Drifting by myself.

Maybe one day.
I'll get myself out of this.
And, maybe.
Just smile.
Hoping tomorrow.
Never comes.

Stuck in the warm embrace.
Of I can.

What am I except.
Mean and sinew.
That breaks at inconvenient.
Times.